


Shell Game

by neifile7



Category: Torchwood, White Collar
Genre: Art Theft, Con Artists, M/M, Not-so-du(m)b-con, Post-Season/Series 01, casefic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-17
Updated: 2013-11-17
Packaged: 2018-01-01 21:43:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1048909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neifile7/pseuds/neifile7
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happens when a semi-reformed art thief and an ex-Time Agent clash on a case? Yeah, good guess.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shell Game

**Author's Note:**

  * For [IamShadow21](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IamShadow21/gifts).



> Timey-wimey handwave: takes place after White Collar S1 (spoilers, yup) and sometime during TW S2. Call it creative license. Thanks to 51stcenturyfox and copperbadge for beta sparkle and much-needed spackle.
> 
> First published on LJ on 6/29/10.

 

If he has to be back at work – and he does, Peter won’t let him lick his wounds any longer – Neal’s glad to have the kind of case he likes best.

The hunt’s been one part thrilling chase, one part sexy slow dance: Peter’s intricate traps, Jones’ and Cruz’s cyber-fu, the gradual flushing-out of their quarry. And as their final bait, a two-part pissing contest between Neal and Markos: who’s the better thief, con, forger, asshole with the bigger cock and the steelier balls. It’s all fallen into place, like the last drop of the tumblers when you crack the safe.

They’ve bagged their man in the act of moving the prime treasures from his Manhattan cache (not his only one, they're sure; Neal's looking forward to tracking down the rest) – a handful of small, priceless items sewn into a modified attaché case, and two fake passports and tickets to Dubai that will sew up the Fed case just as nicely.

While the team began picking apart the premises, Neal had looked over their haul: a suite of Degas drawings, a Holbein miniature, a four-thousand-year-old Sumerian cylinder seal. All genuine, highly portable, and highly negotiable, if you know your market.

And in a small chamois bag, their grand prize: the Medusa Star Sapphire, one of those legendary jewels with the sort of bloody history that the credulous will call cursed and the cynical will tell you comes with the territory. Ten known past owners, including two crowned heads, plus a whole string of thefts successful and not, and here it sits in Neal’s palm.

Except it’s a fake. A gorgeous, flawlessly executed, in-your-face fake.

Neal hasn’t said anything yet. Markos _had_ stolen the real gem, no question; he’d left his fingerprints (well, not literally) all over that job, and he hasn’t visited any of his other known lairs. So Neal has mentally reviewed the layout of this Titanic-scale suite; the image arises at once -- Markos striding down that ridiculous foyer with its arcade of niches, each with a replica of a famous sculpture. Depending on your snob factor, either wannabe-Mafia chic or just pretentious staging, but good for hiding things about the floorplan, too.

Time to excuse himself for a trip to the gents', just as he’d done on his first visit.

Because there’s satisfaction in all of it, but this, _this_ is the part that gives him a not-so-metaphorical hard-on: zeroing in on the right niche, squeezing through the concealed door into this strongroom, and now scoping out a beauty of a high-tech safe. Neal loves it when hunches pay off. And sure, there’s a pure rush and accelerated heartbeat in snagging so fabled a prize, but even better is the mental image of Peter’s face when he drops it on his desk.

Neal doesn’t care if it makes him a clever puppy playing high-finesse fetch: that half-smirk Peter will get, before the yelling starts, will be worth everything.

He cracks his knuckles, a little theatrically, and starts in on the safe's electronics.

\-----  
“Wouldn’t try it that way, if I were you.”

Neal’s hand jerks back from the security box. He swears under his breath, and glances over his shoulder in the direction of the voice, peering in the dim light.

It’s not Peter, but someone a bit taller and broader and, at first glance, younger. The man slouched against the doorframe has both fists stuffed in the pockets of a long military coat. As Neal stares, he pulls out both hands, flips open the cover on the wristband he sports and taps a few beats. Low halogen lights spring on along the shallow wall.

“Could use a little light for this kind of work,” and the man steps closer, casually, too casually, until he’s right in Neal’s space. “Although it won’t help you much in this case. That baby’s beyond tamper-proof. Keep fiddling with it and it’ll take your hand right off, maybe those beautiful eyes with it.”

He has a shock of artfully disarrayed brown hair, a strong jaw, perfect teeth, and ice-blue eyes that are openly sweeping Neal head to toe, lingering in all the most suggestive places. A strong masculine scent, undertones of cordite and musk, invades Neal’s nostrils.

“Captain Jack Harkness,” the man says, extending a large hand. Neal takes it automatically. Well-tended but calloused, firm but not bone-crushing grip. The teeth flash. “Nice suit, by the way. Sorry to gatecrash your party, but you guys are about to screw up a sensitive international operation here, and I’m the man who’s gonna save you a world of headache.”

“Bullshit,” Neal says, finally finding his voice. “There are no inter-agency flags on Markos. They’d have shown up when we started the investigation.”

“There wouldn’t be. We don’t operate on your radar. Which is why we wanted to handle this one quietly, but you kinda stumbled in and spoiled it for us. Markos was supposed to meet me tonight and hand something over, and by the looks of it, you’ve figured out what it is.”

“I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” Neal says, Innocent Caffrey Look #6 in place. “We’ve bagged him; I’m just tidying up. You have a claim on something he stole, take it up with my boss down the hall.”

“Uh-uh,” the man drawls. “Nice try, Neal Caffrey.” He positively caresses the name, as if turning it over on his tongue and finding he likes the flavor. “Oh, don’t look like that. I’ve had Markos under surveillance for a while. And I have a _very_ talented researcher on my team. We had you tagged an hour after you came here and did your little fan dance the other day.”

“The Bureau is going to love you, if you’re hacking their databases,” Neal says, wondering if he can make a break for it; Harkness already has him backed halfway to the rear wall and is blocking the exit, damn him.

“Most do, given a chance. In this case, I’m _really_ sorry I won't get to put it to the test," and Harkness actually waggles his eyebrows. Christ almighty. "So, my guess? Markos had a ringer he was gonna pass along to me. And you’re the man who’d spot it and go looking for the backup cache. So maybe a quiet look-see suits us both. Which you should leave to me, given the booby-trapping. Don’t want you losing the use of those fingers.”

"Your concern is touching," Neal says. Innuendo, he can match. "Not that I wouldn't have figured it out in a moment," he adds, because, well. Professional pride.

"Sure you would. But Markos does know his bang-bangs, even if he's kind of an idiot in other ways." Harkness raises his left wrist and reads something on it. “Okay, I don’t think this will actually blow the damn thing up, but you might want to stand back, just in case.” He crowds Neal all the way to the rear of the shallow room, tapping a sequence on his gadget.

In the event, it's a little anticlimactic: the safe emits a kind of electronic fart, followed by a puff of smoke; a few more buttons, and it pops open, swinging on its hinges.

“Very James Bond,” Neal says drily, which seems to amuse Harkness disproportionately. He reaches in, and passes Neal a couple of fistfuls of paper.

“Documentation,” he says. “Your kind of evidence. Never let it be said I don’t share. Now where – ah, here, it is,” and he pulls out a chamois bag, the twin of the one Neal’s already seen, and peers inside. Satisfied, he pockets it and turns back to Neal.

“You guys owe me something for nearly flushing my bird. But then, you saved me the trouble of finding the safe, so maybe it evens out. How’d you figure that out, by the way?”

“Easy. This niche had the copy of Cellini’s Perseus with the Head of Medusa,” Neal replies. “It pays to study the classics.”

"Oooh, a traditionalist," Harkness drawls. "I like that in a man." Having scooped his prize, he doesn't seem in any hurry to leave; he's actually lounging against the wall next to the safe. Neal doesn't miss the hint of tension and the watchful eyes, however; he has the look of a man waiting for a cue.

There is something very, very off about this script.

"This is the point where I'm supposed to say, 'You can't expect to get away with this,'" Neal says. "Because, seriously? You know I'm giving the alarm the minute you walk out of here. And we've got all the exits covered. What makes you think we can't stop you between us?"

“Because first -- look, I might _technically_ be a bit outside my jurisdiction, but you guys are even further out of your depth. Believe me, that hunk of rock is not something you want to mess with. Second, I arranged for a little diversion,” and Neal jumps at the sound of popping and shouts from the other end of the corridor, and instinctively starts forward, “right about now. Relax, they’re fine. It’s just a little smokescreen to keep ‘em busy while I exit stage left.”

He shoves Neal smoothly with one arm so that he sprawls against the back wall, then scoops his chin into that massive hand. “Third, thank you. I’d love to take my time over this, but I’ve got places to be.” And he plants a hard, _dirty_ kiss on Neal’s gaping mouth. “Be thankful I’ve ditched the lip gloss,” he says, which makes no sense, but nothing else about the last five minutes has, either. “See you around, Neal Caffrey.”

By the time Neal recovers, he’s gone, even the sound of his footsteps covered by the hullabaloo down the hall.

Neal straightens and stands quite still for a moment, one finger absently tracing his lips. Been awhile since he’s been caught so far off-balance, and he wouldn’t have thought the flirting bastard had the balls. But then, he already knows all about underestimating a pretty face. And every good con takes a mile, given an inch.

He tugs the freshly-plucked chamois bag from his pocket, and bounces it thoughtfully on his palm.

\------  
Showing Peter the hidden strongroom isn’t quite the thrill that handing over the stone will be, but Neal’s in no hurry to produce his prize; he's saving that for a little demonstration when he can put the real and fake side by side. It’s one of the few perks of this gig, after all, explaining his own cleverness, and it deserves better staging than a crime scene that’s gone ass-up.

And, well, he wants a chance to look at it thoroughly first. Harkness is plainly a dealer in either batshit or horseshit, but Neal’s quite willing to believe there’s more to the stone than meets the eye.

What with the smoke bombs and chaos and then the inventory of documents from Markos’ safe, it’s close to midnight before Neal makes it back to the apartment, devoutly hoping that Mozzie will have given chess a miss this evening. He slides open his door and tosses the fedora on a chair, sloping over to the bar for a glass of burgundy.

“You know, I really do like the suit,” says a voice from the direction of his bed. “Standard issue for con men these days, huh. Don’t know about the hat, though. Think you might have overreached just a tad on that one.”

Neal turns, eyes the intruder half-sprawled on his duvet. “So says the man who has suspenders _and_ a belt holding up his period trousers. You have that much trouble staying inside them?”

“You have no idea. And, well, try wearing a hip holster without a belt,” and Harkness rolls to sitting and reaches inside the coat with one fluid motion. A ridiculously small revolver appears in that huge hand. It looks about as retro as the rest of his gear.

“Oh, jesus, not another one,” Neal groans. “And no, I wouldn’t. I don’t carry a gun. Hate the damn things.”

“Should introduce you to a friend of mine, then.” Despite the generous display of incisors, Harkness’ smile doesn’t go an inch past his lips. “The gun’s just insurance, Caffrey. Believe me, I’d rather do this by dint of my winning personality, but you’re not leaving me with a lot of options. I won’t shoot off your pretty face, but I have no problem taking off your kneecap. Hand it over.”

Neal sighs, playing for time. “I don’t suppose there’s any point in asking how you got in. Or how you tracked me here.”

“You’ve already seen my classy way with locks,” he says, holding up his wrist. “And I took the precaution of routing your tracking signal to this baby. That anklet must put quite a cramp in your style, by the way.”

“I get by. And I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I turned the Medusa over to my boss.”

“No, you didn’t,” Harkness says. The bastard’s obviously enjoying this. “You kept it, because you can’t resist a puzzle. You’re not handing it over until you work out what makes it so special. Besides, it’s a bargaining chip, and I figure you can use all of those you can get.”

Neal folds his arms. Bravado at all costs. “Feel free to go on explaining my motives to me.”

Harkness grins, teeth back in evidence. “It’s what I’d do. C’mon, Caffrey. Make it easy on yourself for once.”

“Look, I don’t want to get shot, but I gotta cover myself here,” Neal says. Despite his nonchalant stance, his palms are itching with a light sweat. “As soon as we produce those documents, Markos is going to know that we opened the safe. And if we haven't got the real gem -- if it's not part of the evidence -- he’ll muddy our case by accusing me of stealing it. Which, given my history, will probably screw me for good. And I’m sorry, but your story is crazy enough to get me locked back up anyway. So knee integrity aside, why should I help you out?”

“Well, I could certainly make it worth your while,” Harkness says with a truly outrageous leer. “But let’s keep it simple. I can get you out of that tracking anklet without tripping any alarms. That good enough for you?”

Shit. It takes every bit of self-control for Neal to school his features, and not break into profanity or semi-hysterical laughter.

Too fucking late; story of his life. He’s not going to run, he knows that, because the answers are at the Bureau one way and another, but…on the other hand, unsupervised time is one hell of a bonus. And he’s got all weekend.

But he’s going to get everything he can from this lunatic first. He reaches in his pocket and slowly draws out the chamois bag.

“As you said, I can’t resist a puzzle. So tell me what’s so damn special about the stone.”

The stare Harkness levels at him goes on much too long, and the gun hand never wavers. Then he sighs, and puts the gun on the nightstand. He taps a few buttons on his wrist gadget, and Neal feels the anklet loosen. He slips it off and checks it: it’s ticking over as usual, no flashing light, no triggered alarm. He puts it on the nightstand next to the gun, and hands Harkness the bag.

“C’mere,” Harkness says, patting the bedspread next to him; Neal hesitates a fraction, then complies. Harkness pulls out a handkerchief and gently spills the gem into it, turning it over so that they can both see the milky starbust.

Neal leans a little over his shoulder to look, catching that scent once again. He wishes he could ask the name of the aftershave, because it’s pure bottled sex, and he’d like to corner the market on it.

Harkness runs one finger clockwise around the sapphire’s setting, a cluster of tiny gold beads, a delicate motion for such big fingers. Neal gasps: the white markings are moving, swirling into a perfect little nebula.

“Sit back,” Harkness warns, holding the gem out at arm’s length and carefully running a finger counter-clockwise round the setting. A silver-blue ray of light bursts vertically from his palm, erupting over the ceiling like a reverse waterfall, casting magical, glittering shadows in every corner of the room.

In a lifetime of chasing gorgeous objects, Neal has never seen anything more exquisite.

“Pretty, isn’t it?” Harkness’ eyes shine in the flickering glow. He smiles at Neal, reversing his finger on the rim once more. The light vanishes.

“What the hell?” Neal breathes.

“It’s not a sapphire, although no test on earth would tell you that,” Harkness says quietly. “Let’s just say it’s a very sophisticated piece of tech, keyed to a very remote power source. You have no idea how remote. It’s not called the Medusa for nothing.” He deposits the stone back into the bag. “My job’s to keep it out of the wrong hands. That means no tech cowboys, no high-class art thieves, and definitely no governments.”

“That dangerous, huh,” Neal says, playing along. The guy’s good. If Neal didn’t know better, he’d say this con actually believes his own bullshit. Or maybe he just is that crazy. Or maybe....

“Well, eight mysterious deaths that we know of? Kinda makes you think the radiation’s not a health cure. There’s more, though. Use it properly – and I didn’t even dial it up to full power just now -- and it’s a signal. To whom, I can’t tell you, but you guys aren’t exactly ready for an interplanetary Good Neighbor Policy. Use it wrong, and, well, you might tear a hole in the fabric of time and space. So yeah, there’s a reason we’ve been chasing it for a hundred and twenty years.”

Oooookay, Neal thinks. Whack job. Or, given the evidence of his own eyes, spinning a ludicrous story to divert attention from just how fucking dangerous or valuable this thing really is. Either way, Neal’s a bit out of his depth as predicted, but for Peter’s sake as well as his own, he can't quite toss in his cards yet.

These days, not letting Peter down is about all that gets him out of bed in the mornings.

So maybe he’d just better go with the obvious. A good con of either gender always knows when to bring on the heavy artillery.

He shifts, as if to put a little distance between them (given that they’re all but breathing the same air), and allows his forearm to not-quite-accidentally brush over Harkness.’ He meets the appraising look Harkness turns on him with his most guileless and promising one, and holds still as a hand slides ever so casually along his thigh. Oh. _Oh._

“First you hit on me, then you threaten to shoot me, and now you’re hitting on me again?” Neal says, a little breathlessly, because god damn.

“It’s what I do,” Harkness murmurs. “All part of the charm, or so I’ve been told.” His hand skitters delicately over Neal’s thigh and curls over his cock, just so, and his breath comes hot across his cheek.

\----  
For a man who puts hands, tongue and perfect teeth to absolutely filthy use – to say nothing of the growling stream of dirty talk – Harkness is, surprisingly, quite the gentleman afterwards; he fetches a warm washrag and wipes Neal down with care, brings him a glass of water. Vanity as well as consideration, Neal thinks hazily as he watches him dress: the kind of man who prides himself on screwing his partners into tiny speechless pieces, and sticks around at least long enough to put them back together.

Well, takes one to know one. Again.

Not that he’s far off the mark, although Neal’s not going to admit it. It has been a very long time since he's had two such athletic bouts of sex in such quick succession. Wherever Harkness gets his stamina (and he doubts very much that Viagra enters into it), he wants to buy up that stock too.

Harkness pulls the coat on, hitching his arms to settle the shoulders, and picks up the chamois bag from the nightstand. He pockets it with a flourish, patting the spot a little theatrically, and then nods once, as though to himself. But instead of heading for the door as Neal expects, he ambles past the dining table and pushes out onto the terrace.

Neal grabs his bathrobe and follows, more slowly than he’d like; legs have gone rubbery and head’s buzzing just a bit. Damn the man.

“Great view,” Harkness says without turning around, although he’s not looking at the cityscape; he’s staring up, as if he can pierce the low clouds and halogen scrim with his gaze. “You’re not going to run, are you,” he says conversationally. “You’d have bundled me out the door if you were. Not that I don’t appreciate it, but even I don’t stop for sex when I’ve got a clean head start.”

Neal laughs, and the bitter edge of it saws against his tongue. “My reason for running went up in flames a few months ago. Literally.”

Harkness turns his head and looks him full in the face, and his eyes have gone at once softer and bleaker than before. It might be a trick of the light, but Neal would swear he looks decades older. “I’m sorry, for what it’s worth. And believe me, I know exactly how little that is.” He pauses, looking down, and then up at the sky again.

“Look, it’s none of my business, but -- you like what you do, don’t you. You get the rush and lot of the perks of a good con, even if they’ve got you on a leash. And your team, you guys are good, or you wouldn’t have caught Markos. So maybe it’s not the same as whatever you lost, but it’s a place to start.” He smiles, and it looks a little forced this time, Neal thinks, although his tone remains light. “Also, couldn’t help noticing. Your boss is hot.”

“Very straight,” Neal says. “Very married. Also, _boss_.”

Harkness flips a hand dismissively. “Semantics. Nothing you can't deal with, I'm sure. You’d be surprised what a good office romance can do for your perspective.”

“And his wife is gorgeous and exceptional,” Neal replies with all the dignity he can muster. “I would never –“ and he breaks off, wondering why the _hell_ they’re even discussing this and just when he’d lost his brain-mouth filter.

“Like that, is it?” The grin broadens. “Just gives you more to work with, then. Especially if he’s the kind of guy who brings his work home with him.” Harkness leans in, brushes their mouths together. It’s a light, affectionate touch, but Neal still stumbles against him a little. “Whoa,” Harkness says, steadying him. “You’re knackered, one way and another. Get some shuteye. You can sort out the rest of your life tomorrow.”

“Right,” Neal mumbles, and allows himself to be guided back inside. He _is_ pretty muzzy-headed, at that.

Harkness deposits him back on the bed and helps him out of his robe. He straightens, visibly re-donning some of the brashness he’d worn for his first entrance into Neal’s life. This time he does make for the door in a swirl of long wool, turning, predictably, for his exit line. “Been a pleasure doing business with you, Neal Caffrey. Especially the bonus at the end. I’d say see you around, but I don’t think it’s likely.”

“Not an issue,” Neal says to his pillow. “Once was memorable enough, thanks.”

He lays still, fighting rather than feigning sleep, until the firm tread recedes and he hears, distantly, a thud that might be the front door closing. Only then does he sit up and reach for his bathrobe pocket.

Harkness had made palming the bag ridiculously easy this time, but he’d better work fast, just in case.

Nothing happens when he runs a finger around the gold beads of the setting, clockwise, then counter-clockwise. He retrieves his jeweler’s loupe from the trousers tossed carelessly on a chair, and holds the gem up to the bedside lamp.

A gorgeous, flawlessly executed, in-your-face fake.

Neal drops back against his pillows, laughing and naked, and the last of the adrenaline seeps out of him. In spite of everything, he feels better than he has in months. He’s got a free weekend, a fake rock and a hell of a story (suitably edited) for Monday. It’s a pleasant feeling, this muzziness, blurring together the chase and the sex and the battle of wits, and he doesn’t mind losing as much as he’d have thought. He really should get laid more often.

He falls asleep turning over in his head just how he’s going to explain all this to Peter.

**Author's Note:**

> A copy of Benvenuto Cellini's "Perseus with the Head of Medusa" alerts Neal to the gemstone's hiding place. Full image may be found [here](http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Benvenuto_Cellini-Perseus_With_the_Head_of_Medusa-The_Loggia_dei.jpg).


End file.
